


Kill To Save

by voices_of_salt



Series: The Riera Cycle [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Flash Forward, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9458639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voices_of_salt/pseuds/voices_of_salt
Summary: It's not enough to know how to fight - you must also know why you fight.Prompt: Someone my muse would kill for.





	

She was six years old, and she stood in the practise yard with the Lafanese summer sun beating down on her.

“No,” said her father, “soften your stance: you’re tense as a lubber in a storm. No, no! Never put your weight on your heels! If you’re not light on your feet, you’d better start training to wear full plate – and practise water-breathing.”

Mercedes closed her eyes and concentrated. Willing herself to relax, she shifted her weight forward, staying loose and easy, as she might on the deck of a ship. This was her first sword, or at least her first practice sword, and she _so_ wanted to do well.

“Ah, now that’s my girl! You already look more dangerous.” Raül Riera’s tone was playful, but Mercedes could hear the pride in his voice. She dutifully held her stance, but her heart glowed with his approval.

“Now, lift your sword. Point it towards me. Hold it steady! Head up, back straight. Keep that blade steady, my treasure. Give us a glare – _ay_ , how fierce you are! You’ll have to promise to go easy on your old papa in his dotage. But hold that sword steady. Hold it out, keep holding until your arm burns, and then you keep holding it still.”

Mercedes took a deep breath, and held her sword.

 

* * *

 

She leapt with all the strength she possessed, rolling to the deck and springing up to her feet again. The shining blade of the Isterian mercenary’s sword arced down towards her, and she brought up her dagger. It was a paltry defence, but it was all she had. His greater strength bore down her guard - a grown man versus a fifteen-year-old girl - and she screamed as the sword bit into her shoulder.

Behind her, Arnau swore. But she’d bought him the crucial split-second he needed to turn and face the mercenary whose attack would have killed him. Her brother swung his axes, and slicing across the Isterian’s neck.

“Why?” Arnau sobbed at he dragged her to safety, blinking through his tears. “Oh ancestors, why would you do something so completely stupid?”

Mercedes could not answer him. The agony of being dragged across the deck rendered her incapable of speech. But she knew he understood.

 

* * *

 

Things had not gone to plan. Somehow, they never did.

Drawn steel flashed in the firelight. The air grew tense with the thunderstorm-pressure of gathering arcane energies.

Mercedes scanned the room, noting the way the enemy fighters carried themselves, taking in the way they held of their weapons and the precision of their stance. The enemy casters made ready with their own preparations, but the martial types all eyed each other with a wary kind of fellow-feeling.

A brute with a crossbow met Mercedes’ eyes, then quickly looked away. She saw no change of expression on his face. She did not see the slight shift of his weapon. She didn’t have to. Without thinking she stepped forward and to the side, placing herself neatly in front of Mora Garwhal.

The crossbowman took aim. Mercedes raised her buckler, and she never wondered when it had become instinct to put herself between the necromancer and harm.

 

* * *

 

They’d only just gotten him back. Rainer: their brave, good little idiot. And now, bravely, idiotically, he was going to get himself good and killed.

The crowd of rioting Calmerians was deep, but she’d fought her way through packed decks in the heat of battle - this was nothing she couldn’t handle. Mercedes dove into the crowd. She twisted and turned, her heart driving her on, her mind calculating the path of least resistance, and her common sense straggling hindmost.

Through the press of bodies she saw Rainer’s face, then lost sight of him again as the crowd closed in.

She didn’t have to think. Her sword might not shine with magical energies, but she didn’t need magic. In the end, all ever she needed was steel.

 

* * *

 

The sun beat down on the courtyard, but still she held her sword. Sweat dripped from her eyes and beaded at the tip of her nose. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But her father held her gaze, and though the tip of the practise sword wavered, she held it.

“Does it hurt?” Her father asked her.

Mercedes did not trust herself to speak. Surely he wasn’t really asking?

“ _Does it hurt?_ ” He demanded.

“Yes!” She screamed – half a sob, really.

“Good. Now, Merceta: tell me why we fight?”

“For honour,” she gasped. Oh ancestors, oh gods, please let him tell her she could lower her arm.

“Yes, my daughter, but why do we fight for honour?”

“For the clan?” She swayed with the effort required to stay upright, and her father’s form swam before her eyes. But she did not lower her sword.

“And why do we fight for the clan?”

“For – for  – I don’t know.” She shut her eyes, hot tears running down her cheeks. “I don’t know! Please, _please_ let me stop,” she sobbed. “I’m so tired.”

Gentle hands pried her numb fingers from the sword hilt. Without the weight of it in her hand she overbalanced, collapsing forward into her father’s arms. He caught her easily, sitting in the dust of the practise yard with his daughter cradled in his arms. She clung to him, her whole body shaking.

Raül Riera kissed his youngest daughter. “Did it hurt?” He asked.

“It hurt so much.”

“Would it hurt more to hold it longer?”

“So much more! Please, I don’t want to! Do I have to?”

“No, no, you don’t have to. But answer me this, daughter: if you had to hold that sword from sunrise to sunset, or watch your papa die, would you be strong enough to save my life?”

Mercedes wailed, and buried her face in his shirt.

He held her tight, rocking her in his arms.

“Shh, my honeycake, hush, my western wind. Don’t cry.” But Mercedes could feel his tears falling on her bare arms.

“ _Why_ , papa?”

“Because sometimes your strong sword arm is the only thing that can save the people you love.” He raised her head, cupping her face in his calloused hands: a sailor’s hands, and a swordsman’s. “When those times come, your sword arm must be very strong.”

“I will be strong.”

“I know you will.” He wiped away her tears with one thumb, and she reached out to wipe away his. Her father took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. She could feel the tickle of his moustache, and the scratch of his palms against her own.

“I asked you why we fight, Mercedes. Do you want to know the answer?”

“Yes.”

“We fight because seeing those we love in pain cuts deeper than any sword, and because no cleric in the world can heal regret. Do you understand?”

“I understand, papa.”

He suddenly pulled her to him, holding her so tight against his chest that it scared her.

“No, my treasure, you don’t.” Raül Riera let out a shaky sigh. “My brave, brave little girl. I love you so.” Her father raised his head, and saw the discarded practise sword as it lay in the dust. He thought he would gladly hold that sword out forever, if only it could keep her from ever understanding.


End file.
